


All in Hand

by venvephe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(To be) in hand: If a situation is in hand, it is being dealt with. </p><p>John wishes this situation could be handled with more than just his own ten fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a challenge for myself and Meg to try our hands (ha!) at writing porn. She liked my fill for the masturbation prompt well enough that I sent it to a few more friends, who liked it too. So here it is, 'anger-bation' at its finest, as Meg put it. Much love to Ashley, Thea, Ori, and Michi for enjoying it and encouraging me to post!
> 
> This will be a first part of three. And, as stated, this is my first foray into NSFW territory. Enjoy!

Fuck.

The door shut with a bang like a gunshot. John didn’t care. He stomped up the seventeen steps to the flat, relishing the noise he was making and the absolute fucking freedom he had to make a racket. Sherlock was at the lab at Bart’s, where John had left him, and _he_ couldn’t be bothered by the noise if he wasn’t there. Besides which, Sherlock made enough noise for the both of them on a good day, so John was entitled to have a bit of a loud strop. _Bloody, arrogant, stubborn-_

John thrashed his way out of his jacket, throwing it haphazardly into the sitting room as he stormed past it and up the stairs to his own room. He didn’t bother with the lock on the door in his frustration; he slammed it with a satisfying thud, the door rattling in the frame as it came to rest.

Sherlock Holmes was an arse.

An egotistical know-it-all, a vain, insensitive twat, a posh git who couldn’t get enough of the sound of his own voice and reveled in winding John around his finger.

He shucked his jumper with equal violence, toeing out of his shoes without looking and stumbling to his bed, falling onto it with a heavy bounce. John wasted no time in squirming out of his vest and jeans, which joined the stray shoes on the floor with muffled thumps.

Blowing air through his lips in an agitated huff, John palmed the stiff line of his erection through his pants, frowning. Fucking, bloody stupid Sherlock Holmes.

His touches started light, tracing the rigid edge of his cock, feathering little strokes under the bulge of the head at the top of his Y-fronts. He was hot and hard, in his own hand, and he ran his fingers up and down the length a few times, feeling the fabric of his pants so erotically distended.

John’s anger hadn’t dissipated his arousal on his trip home. Sherlock had dismissed him as a distraction, as he _couldn’t keep his libido under control as a result of a lack of girlfriends_. John’s problem was decidedly _not_ his lack of girlfriends; it was one six-bloody-foot detective with an arse like sculpted marble parading about the flat in bedsheets, who had a complete disregard for personal space and a habit of intense, hair-raising eye contact paired with cut-to-the-bone deductions.

And damned him if it didn’t turn John on like nothing else.

 _That_ was his problem.

He was leaking enough to cause a wet patch at the front of his pants, dark and shiny with beading precum, and John groaned at the sensation of damp friction. He grasped his cock  through the taut material, squeezing gently, his other hand wandering lower to caress his balls and toy with the edge of his pants at his thigh. The light touches only served to stoke the fire in his gut, ignited once again by one Sherlock Holmes.

For a genius, Sherlock was pretty dense sometimes. There was no way he realized– he had no idea what he did to John. Oh, John could control it, when Sherlock was draped in nothing more than a sheet, or bent double to rummage through a box of cat skulls for the latest case. John was a doctor, and had been in the army; nudity didn’t bother him, and Sherlock’s little _displays_ were distractions only as long as it took for him to rein his eyes and libido back under his control.

But when Sherlock opened his mouth -

“ _Fuck_ ,” John breathed, dipping under the waistband to take his cock fully in hand. When Sherlock opened his mouth and that posh baritone rolled over him, there was nothing he could do. He _melted_. His control broke, a surge he couldn’t dam back, and he’d do anything Sherlock asked. He’d been unceremoniously kicked out of the lab that afternoon, after Sherlock had repeated his instructions a third time; John had barely heard the words, had just soaked up the sound of them without processing their meaning in the slightest. Sherlock’s face had been confused but thunderous as he snapped at John, told him to go home to Baker Street if he wasn’t going to be any help and couldn’t keep his mind on the task at hand.

Hah – he certainly had it _in hand_ now.

John could admit to himself that he would do almost anything for Sherlock; the detective was his best friend. From the first night with the cabbie, John knew that wherever Sherlock went, he would follow. And yes, he did often do the git’s bidding with the small things, like passing him his mobile from across the room - John groaned in annoyance and at the sensation of his thumb running deliciously along the slit of his cock - but that didn’t mean Sherlock got to order him around.

Got to order him _away_.

Enough teasing; John’s fingers clenched around the damp fabric of his pants and he shimmied them down to his thighs, exposing his erection to the air. It bobbed erotically, dipping to his taut stomach as he sucked in a breath at the sensation, and a clear thread of precum stretched between the spot where it touched and the flushed, exposed head. He felt overheated, between the feverish urgency to touch himself and the cool awareness of his unabashed nudity, spread pornographically in his own bed with his hands between his legs. John closed his eyes and gripped himself roughly, sliding his hand up and down the length of his cock as he let his thoughts unspool.

He’d like to fuck that mouth.

He’d like to fuck the smug, sure tone out of Sherlock’s mouth, feel him moan deep around the girth of him. He’d keep Sherlock on his knees, maybe in the hallway - against the glass doors of the kitchen - seated in his armchair in the sitting room - in the broom cupboard at Scotland Yard-

John groaned, surprised at the eager twitch of his erection at the idea. Sherlock Holmes on his knees, silent for once except for the glorious moans he would make at the feeling of John filling his mouth. The sound would be deep enough to reverberate in Sherlock’s throat, to vibrate around John’s cock. John could get a grip in that gorgeous hair, guide Sherlock to swallow him down and feel his saliva drip down to his balls when Sherlock’s pretty pink heart of a mouth was all the way down to the root.

Sherlock’s curls, errant and mussed by John’s fingers, would brush against his bare stomach as his tongue traced the thick vein leading up to the head. Sherlock’s nose would touch – just barely – when he took the full length of John into his mouth, and the tip of him would graze the back of Sherlock’s throat, encased in tight wet heat. Sherlock's bright eyes would unerringly find his, pupils blown wide with lust and head, a smirk in them despite the fact his mouth would be too full for him to quirk upwards. In his mind’s eye John could see Sherlock nuzzling into the wiry hairs at the base of his cock, inhaling the musk there, cataloging every detail-

John sped up the movements of his hand, adding in a twist of his wrist so he could rub the sensitive underside of the crown with every stroke. He was leaking copiously now, hard and wet at the idea of Sherlock’s (beautiful, filthy, arrogant) mouth. Already a deep, knotting tension was growing in his balls, tightening in his gut.

Maybe he’d pull away, slide his cock out from between Sherlock’s lips to paint them with his own spit, flushed and shiny, only to stretch them again as he pushed in. Sherlock would groan at the loss but sigh, deep and satisfied, at the returned taste of John on his tongue. Oh, and he could use that tongue, so sharp and sarcastic; he’d play with the ridge of John’s foreskin and swirl his tongue around the head once, twice, before grabbing John’s hips to pull him in deep and -

“Sherlock!” John convulsed, flushing red from his cheeks down his chest as his orgasm overtook him, almost blinding in its intensity. Thick stripes painted his ribs and belly as he came, pulse after pulse that had him arching off the bed in a tight bow.

John collapsed, dazed, onto his duvet, sticky and covered in sweat and semen. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and pinched between his eyes, less annoyed and more exhausted than he had been before his vigorous, angry wank. There was nothing within arm’s reach to wipe himself off with, the sheets he’d have to write off as a loss and wash, and he could definitely feel a twinge in his thigh from the force of his orgasm.

John pouted at the ceiling. It was all bloody Sherlock’s fault.

 


End file.
